


The Future Won't Listen To Me

by thememoriesfire



Series: Eyes Closed to Fingers Crossed [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-28
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 08:32:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thememoriesfire/pseuds/thememoriesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn's correspondence with God has taken a turn for the surreal in the last two years.</p><p>(Written to follow on from 'Five Stages', narration by Quinn this time, focus on Quinn, Puck and Santana; no relationship with canon post 2x16, "Original Song".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Although it starts way earlier in time, this follows on from (and slightly overlaps with) ‘Five Stages’. Title is from Matthew Good’s _Message to God_. As always, my extended gratitude to B for ironing out all of my plentiful and frequently obvious mistakes.

Quinn’s a good Christian. She works at it, every day, and part of her routine is keeping up a good communication with God.

The problem is, she’s never really quite sure what to say to him.

Most of the time, she prays for kind of stupid things because she’s aware on some level that her family’s fairly well off and she’s not suffering like some people are. But, if God has the time, she would like:

\- the new Barbie dream house (age 7);  
\- family dinners that aren’t painfully silent and uncomfortable (age 8);  
\- a younger sister, maybe, to take some of the pressure off her (age 9);  
\- good health (ages 10-11, when she can’t think of anything else to ask for);  
\- a nice, respectful (and hopefully faith-having) boyfriend (ages 12-14);  
\- a good future (age 15 onwards).

The good future prayers are always non-specific, but if pressed, Quinn can explain that she would _like_ a handsome husband with a stable job and some income growth potential; a nice house (she’s not ridiculous enough to have actually pictured it having a white picket fence or anything, but she wants something _nice_ ); and of course, two children. Her daughter’s name will be Aubrey, because it goes well with Quinn and suits a surreal number of possible last names (Hudson, Chang, Puckerman... of _course_ she’s thought about all the boys in her class), and her son’s name will be something for her husband to decide (but really, at the end of the day, she will push for Seth because Aubrey isn’t a biblical name and she’s not entirely sure she will trust her husband’s taste.)

Quinn fully believes that her good future is in the cards for her, because she’s a fairly good person. She goes to church and hasn’t tried drinking, like her friends have by now, and she actually _believes_ in celibacy club and being the best cheerleader she can be. It all sounds lame, but she’s read the Bible, and being lame is basically how you get into heaven. Really, at the end of the day, all she wants is to be settled and _happy_. There are weirder things to pray for.

She doesn’t even pray that she moves somewhere great, because she can get exactly what she wants in Lima, Ohio. To start with, there are those really nice duplex houses in Santana’s neighborhood (which really isn’t as close to Lima Heights as Santana likes to pretend it is), and there are plenty of opportunities to move up and out as her family grows.

The real estate market is booming, always, because old people keep dying and young people keep having more and more children. Her husband will be doing something manual, maybe, because she’s not above admitting that that’s a little sexy; and she’s not really deluded enough to think that there is a more than 10% chance that she would end up with someone really white collar in Lima.

A good future, she thinks, every night right before bed-time. It’s really not that much to ask for.

*

Her prayers start to change somewhere at the start of sophomore year.

Finn Hudson is the first boy she meets who seems to hit all the right buttons. He’s handsome, in a sort of goofy way, and he’s polite and kind. She basically descends on him like a vulture all throughout freshman year, and it’s okay that he’s a little afraid of her. She’s not afraid to win him over by fear; he’ll get to know that she has dreams and ambitions that involve romance and devotion at some later point, like when they’re out of high school, and she can stop competing with Santana for every shred of popularity that the school has to offer.

Except, at some point during the three months that they date, it becomes clear that there are some problems with the fantasy. Maybe she should’ve been praying to find someone with _brains_ , or at the very least, someone with a spine. Someone who wouldn’t throw away their royalty status on _show choir_ , of all things.

The real oversight, however, turns out to be the most obnoxious girl Quinn has ever met (and again, she’s friends with Santana, who consumes ‘bitch’ for breakfast and spends most of the day regurgitating it in front of everyone she knows). Clearly, she should’ve been praying that Rachel Berry would never be born. (How was she supposed to _know_ that, though?)

When she looks in the mirror, she sees the opposite of Rachel Berry. She doesn’t _want_ to be thinking about it in these terms, but if Lima was Germany in World War II, there would be no _question_ about who would come out on top. Her mother has always told her that she has really good skin and lovely cheekbones, which is all her mother really seems to care about. But this isn’t Nazi Germany, and Rachel Berry isn’t going to just disappear because it’ll make Quinn’s life easier.

She knows she’s attractive; she works at it all the time. Santana is crazy jealous of her, and some of that _has_ to be about her looks. Quinn’s never felt this almost gut-wrenching lack of confidence before. Boys have _always_ liked her best, because she’s not only pretty, but she’s also smart and the kind of girl that anyone would be happy to take home to their parents.

She knows it’s not Christian to _hate_ someone who’s never really done anything to her other than ‘exist’, but it’s also not very Christian to throw up dinner every night--people are starving in Africa, but Quinn hasn’t been able to make herself give a shit for at least a year now.

*

It all becomes a question of mathematics in her head, at the end of the day. _With_ Finn, she’s at the top of the school; Santana has no choice but to grudgingly follow her lead, and there’s no doubt in Quinn’s mind that she’ll be snagging up tiaras as soon as they’re old enough to start actually going to prom. (She’s so sure that she doesn’t even _pray_ to be nominated prom queen anymore.)

 _Without_ Finn, she would be single; Santana would totally concoct some ridiculous but probably successful power play that would result in her losing most of her friends, at least temporarily; and anyway, it all feels like taking a step backwards towards the plan of the nice house and Aubrey and Seth.

Then, Noah Puckerman offers her a ride home after Cheerios practice one day, and directs a smile at her that does _things_ to her that she really doesn’t _want_ to be happening. She goes home and lies down on her bed with her eyes closed, and wonders what it means that Seth, in her mind, always has green eyes and dark hair.

When she squints long enough, Seth’s hair _could_ be a plainer brown, she guess.

She wonders how it is that nobody told her that sometimes, all the calculations in the world don’t really give any sort of believable answer.

*

There are so many problems with this stupid crush she has. First of all, Puck and Santana are kind of...

Well, they’re not dating; but Santana’s kind of a slut, if Quinn’s being honest, so they probably don’t _need_ to be dating.

Santana and Brittany are the worst members of the celibacy club by a mile; once, she swears Santana tried to give Mike Chang a handjob _in_ a club meeting. Some new rules about co-ed seating were established to stop that from ever happening again, but even then, some part of Quinn wishes they would just drop out. They’re only in it to kiss her ass because she’s captain, and all they’re succeeding in doing is annoying her.

She knows that in reality, she is the only member of the celibacy club who thinks that the proper thing to do is to wait. Santana definitely doesn’t, and if Santana’s not waiting, neither is Puck.

Oh, and then there’s the fact that he’s her boyfriend’s best friend. _And_ a complete skeeze. And kind of an asshole.

“Hey, Fabray,” he says, striding by with Matt and Mike; further down the hallway, he knocks some books out of that Asian girl’s hands, and Kurt Hummel ( _so_ unfortunately gay) squeals like a baby about it.

It doesn’t bother her that Puck likes preying on the weak. She’s pretty sure that he’d put up a good fight to _her_ , and something about that is...

*

“Why doesn’t it bother you that I won’t sleep with you?” she asks Finn, later that night.

“Um, you’re a Christian. It’s like, important to you,” Finn says, before leaning in to try and kiss her again.

It’s the right answer. She doesn’t even _know_ why it pisses her off so much that he won’t even try to get in her panties.

(There is absolutely no logical reason for her to ask some of the other guys on the team to Slushie the hell out of Rachel Berry the next day; Quinn’s not _dumb_ , she knows it’s not logical, but she also doesn’t really care.

Rachel Berry isn’t _in_ the celibacy club. That basically makes her a bigger whore than Santana, so she has it coming.)

*

“Puck’s such a cocksucker,” Santana bitches, sitting down next to her on the bleachers and chewing on a fry. “Like, is it so much to ask that he fucking calls me if he’s going to stand me up? Dickhead.”

“I didn’t think you were dating,” Quinn says, and looks at Finn. At _Finn_ , not at that guy Finn is trying to pass to.

“So? Doesn’t mean I don’t want that dick to let me get my BreadstiX on for free sometimes.”

Brittany sits down behind them and starts rubbing Santana’s neck. “You’re like, really tense.”

“Maybe you should just stop seeing him, if he’s not living up to your expectations,” Quinn says, neutrally. She’s not invested in what Puck does. _Or_ what Santana does. Or really, who Santana does--because she’s definitely not just doing Puck.

Santana grins a little and tips her head back to look at Brittany. “Well, I didn’t say _that_. Puck always lives up to expectations, doesn’t he, B.”

Brittany’s smile isn’t suggestive, just kind of sweet, but Quinn hates them both anyway--for putting this image in her head, but more than that: for making her realize that she just can’t _compete_ with this. Not without compromising everything that she stands for.

*

Finn talks to Rachel after practice some more, and she’s so sick of living up to being a good girl. Her boyfriend is a _moron_ who has a thing for girls who aren’t anything like her, and who likes _singing_ and if he wasn’t so tall, he’d probably get his ass kicked by everyone else on the football team every day.

She’s too good for him. (She’s _better than Rachel,_ for God’s sake.)

The next time Puck offers her a ride home, after they’re all hanging out at Brittany’s house (and she’s spent the entire afternoon trying to get Finn to pay attention to her instead of the football game that is on), she shuts off that part of her brain that’s still desperately trying to make everything perfect.

The “Why don’t you come in?” only makes her feel three percent like Judas, because she may be contemplating doing something really wrong, but at least she’s not cheating in her heart, the way Finn has been for _months_ now.

Just because she’s a virgin doesn’t mean she’s _blind_.

*

Puck, somehow, knows exactly what to say to her.

Santana would say that he’s got game and that’s all it is, but it scares the crap out of her that someone can read her so easily. She’s basically given Finn a manual and he still can’t figure out that she doesn’t _feel_ pretty so he should probably _tell her_ that she is.

Puck just says it like it’s a totally normal thing to say.

“You’re not fat.”

The wine coolers make it so easy to just pretend that this isn’t actually a choice she’s making. (After all, it’s the sin, not the sinner. It’s what Puck is doing to _her_ , it’s not what she’s choosing to do.)

To Puck’s credit, he _is_ kind of nice about it. She suspects he’s probably nowhere near this nice with Santana, who also doesn’t look like she’d appreciate nice--but he’s gentle enough. It hurts a bit, but not really in a super-bad way, and then Puck sort of moans, “Jesus, I can’t believe I’m fucking _Quinn Fabray_ ” and laughs and--

That’s it.

She knows she should be pleased that she’s apparently been in his spank bank for years now, but all she is is sober and frustrated and already feeling the mistake swell in her head.

“You need to leave,” she says, before taking a twenty minute long shower.

She doesn’t know it at the time, but she won’t feel clean again for another 9 months.

*

Her correspondence with God takes a surreal turn after that.

On October 4th: “I know that this is probably just because I’m not eating enough, but it would be really great if you could just help my period along.”

On October 20th: “You’re _God_. You can make those two strips turn another way. …. why won’t you just fucking--sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to think that. I just don’t know what to do.”

On October 27th: “I’m going to make Brittany drop me during practice tomorrow, and it would be great if you could make sure that I land in such a way that … well, that _thing_ will be taken care of.”

On November 5th: “I’m doing this _for the baby_. I know it’s a sin to lie, and I know Finn doesn’t deserve this, but I’m doing it for the baby. That makes it okay, right?”

On December 10th: “ _Why is this happening to me?_ ”

*

God doesn’t talk back much.

Sometime shortly after Sectionals, Quinn stops praying.

*

Her old friends are all gone. Santana thinks she’s a total slut now, which is ironic and kind of dumb given that Quinn’s had sex exactly once now, but that’s not much of an apology.

Puck wasn’t Santana’s boyfriend, but he was _hers_ , and Quinn can’t even come up with a sensible excuse for what she was thinking when she decided to let him seduce her.

She could offer the truth, which is “he made me feel beautiful”, but Santana wouldn’t understand that. Nor would she care.

The worst thing about everything that’s happened is that Rachel is sympathetic; Rachel, now with the football-playing boyfriend and so many reasons to think Quinn is a total bitch, actually just feels _bad_ for her. Quinn can’t help hating her even more, even though she knows that that means that she’s not a good person.

Whatever.

She was good for sixteen years, and look where _that_ got her.

*

This baby is not an Aubrey.

She just refuses to think of it as anything but ‘it’, because that way, she can _have_ Aubrey and it’ll be _real_. She’ll be much older and much more prepared, and she’ll be in love with the father (who won’t just be lying around on his bed, drinking a Dr. Pepper and playing _Grand Theft Auto_ while occasionally glancing at her with so much resentment she almost can’t breathe) and Aubrey Fabray-Whatever is going to have a wonderful life.

Aubrey will be proud of her mother.

(There is just no way this baby could ever be.)

*

Mercedes really comes through for her. And, in a way, Quinn guesses she really comes through for Mercedes. She knows what an eating disorder looks like; she knows because now that _it’s_ inside of her, and she’s seeing Ms. Pillsbury twice a week to talk about how she’s coping, she is finally starting to eat like a normal person.

(It helps that every time she thinks that she’s fat now, she doesn’t even need to look at a mirror to know it’s true. Of course she is. _It_ is making her fat.)

The Jones’ are so tolerant it almost makes Quinn’s head spin, the first night she’s there. Mercedes’ mother just talks to her about school like _that’s_ what’s going on in her life right now, and Mercedes mentions that Quinn was probably the best cheerleader they had, so it kind of sucks that she can’t be anymore. Mercedes’ dad offers her a free dental check, at which point Quinn realizes she doesn’t even know if her parents kept her on the family insurance plan or not--and she ends up sobbing over a plate of spaghetti.

Nobody says anything; there’s just some hands rubbing her back until she calms down, and by the time she falls asleep that night (in a boy’s room, for the first time in her life, and this _really_ is not how she ever imagined that), some part of her wishes that she can wake up tomorrow and forget about her actual family.

These people are like strangers, and they’re already so much better.

*

 _It_ becomes Beth. She hates Puck for doing this to her; at least when he wanted to call her Jackie Daniels, she could just roll her eyes and feel justified in not letting him get near her or the baby. But Beth--

She excuses herself to go to the bathroom in the middle of glee and Mr. Schue lets her go, because she literally has to pee every ten minutes now anyway.

When she stares into the mirror, she almost likes what she sees. Her face is less angular, and she looks like someone who has managed to make peace with herself, sort of. It feels good for a whole two minutes, until she actually has to pee and remembers, _oh, right. Beth_.

*

If anyone had told her last year that she’d be giving birth in the middle of an important show choir event and Santana and Brittany would be nowhere near her when it happened, she would have laughed.

All in all, it’s the least weird part of the day, though. When she wakes back up, it’s like someone has torn her in half. She punches Puck in the chest a few times almost immediately, but he just has this soft, sad look on his face--the look that says, “I know what you’re planning on doing.”

An abortion was never going to be an option, but she wonders how many more of Puck’s children won’t end up making it home with him. It’s a terrible thought, so of course seconds after she has it, her mother walks in like the wrath of God and repeats that offer for her to move back home.

“”Honey, please. I would just like to pretend that none of this ever happened.”

The stabbing pain she feels isn’t at all related to labor, or even knowing that Puck is looking at her mother disbelievingly, or even that Shelby is going to be there any moment now and Beth will be gone forever.

It’s at the realization that she is so much like her mother that their exit strategy for this entire situation is identical.

“Okay,” she says, and Puck looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.

Whatever moment they were having about this _thing_ they did together is long gone, and when she looks at him, it’s with the same lack of caring she had before they ever slept together; before she even knew that some part of her actually _liked_ him.

*

It’s easy to go back to being shallow. It’s all she has been for sixteen years.

She goes back to the Cheerios and shoots up a small prayer when she drops that little bomb-shell about Santana’s boob job; she’d feel bad about it, except that Santana hasn’t really been a friend to her and she doesn’t have a whole lot to lose.

Within two months, she is so far back on top that she can’t even see the bottom. That new kid, Sam Evans, has the world’s most ridiculous crush on her. So not in her league, but--

Somehow, he gets to her. It’s because he still believes in her vow of celibacy, maybe; or because she knows that he’s never seen her when she was _actually_ fat.

Moral warfare with Santana continues, and eventually, the thing with Sam falls apart. (Because of her. Always because of her.)

Mercedes asks her about it afterwards, and she shrugs, because it's easier to do that than to actually think about whether or not she's making a horrible mistake. “He was nice, but I didn’t love him.”

Mercedes sighs and says, “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on Finn.”

Quinn says nothing. She doesn’t know how to explain that she never _was_ hung up on Finn, but that she’d rather eat glass than watch him be happy with someone not _her_.

*

Getting Finn to cheat is way easier than she thought it would be.

That’s until Puck reminds her that he did get some up-close lessons in cheating last year.

(She doesn’t even really care, now that she’s won him back.)

*

Santana and Brittany are into each other. _That’s_ not a surprise. What’s surprising is that Santana is finally owning up to it. And then what’s _really_ surprising is that Brittany turns her down for _Artie_.

Quinn stays away from Santana for her own sake, but really, there comes a point where someone has to say something to her about her behavior.

She can’t swallow normally for a week after she’s taken it upon herself to be that person. The strangest part of it is that it’s probably the most real conversation she’s had with anyone since she had Beth.

*

Finn clearly still wants Rachel. It’s such a repeat of last year that some part of Quinn is furious that they don’t just _get back together_. Really--will it help if she gets knocked up again? Will that make it easier?

But then he does things like show up to talk about prom, and he buys her a grape Slushie without ice, just the way she liked when Beth was making her vomit all the time. She doesn’t know how she surrounded herself with _nice_ people; they mostly just make her feel fucking terrible about herself.

*

Santana thinks she should end it, but then Santana sort of enjoys being single--or, well, she enjoys being claustrophobically hung up on someone who can’t even count to five without assistance, but Quinn’s not touching that subject with a ten foot pole again.

What’s nice is that Santana doesn’t beat around the bush, ever. At some point, she blurts out something about adoption being permanent, and a part of Quinn that she didn’t even know was still spiteful just sort of scabs over at it. Santana might not have been there on the day, but clearly she cared enough to stay informed.

It’s more than she can say about her own father.

*

“Have you ever been in love?” she asks Mercedes one day.

Mercedes just sort of raises her eyebrows. “What’s this about?”

“It’s just girl talk,” Quinn says, crabbily. “Nevermind.”

“Well, okay then--for the sake of girl talk, no, I don’t think I have,” Mercedes says.

They’re in Quinn’s room, going over some history homework together for a group project, and maybe this isn’t the time to talk about this--but it doesn’t really matter.

“Yeah. Me either,” Quinn admits, and then watches as Mercedes’ face changes completely.

“Seriously. Not with Puck. Not with _Finn_?”

“No,” Quinn admits, after a long pause. It’s _such_ a relief to have it out there. “I mean, I used to think I was. But whenever I think about the future, I can’t … I don’t know.”

Mercedes snaps their textbook shut and gives Quinn a serious look. “But you’re with him anyway.”

“Yes.”

“You broke him and Rachel up and you _don’t even love him_?”

She doesn’t have anything defensible to say.

Mercedes looks so disappointed in her that it actually hurts.

*

When Finn breaks up with her, Santana lets her cry for a good ten minutes, and then comes up with some totally lame idea about going to prom together--like they’re that girl from the old _90210_ who chose herself, or something.

It’s totally lame, but Quinn’s most regular non-Christian thought is that she wants her mother to suffer. Plus, she’s fairly sure that she’ll have more fun with Santana than she would have _ever_ had with Finn.

Why not.

*

Puck answers on the third ring and says, “I thought you were done nagging at me constantly now that you’re done spawning.”

“It’s not _constant_ ,” she snaps at him. “And forgive me for being crazy enough to think you might want to go see the daughter that you insisted on naming.”

Puck’s silent for a long time; when he says something else, it’s in that same voice he used back when he got her to give it up. She had no idea he was actually being sincere at the time, and it warps her memory of the night completely.

“Look, Q, you won’t understand this shit, but--my dad was gone. A lot. And then sometimes he’d be back, and I’d be so fucking happy that he was there--but then he’d leave again. I spent my entire life saying goodbye to some asshole who just couldn’t deal with sticking around, and honestly, I think it would’ve been better if he’d stayed gone sooner.”

Quinn swallows hard when she says, “You’re not him. We didn’t _abandon_ her.”

“It’s not gonna feel any different from her side of things,” Puck says, and hangs up.

Quinn considers throwing her phone out the window for two seconds; but she’s not Santana. She’d just have to go outside and get it again, and it wouldn’t make her feel much better.

She just calls Santana instead, who has some choice words about Puck and his handling of the situation, and that _does_ make her feel a little bit better.

*

Beth looks happy.

Quinn wonders what she looked like when she was Beth’s age.

She just wants to get the hell out of there before she has any chance to see it start to go wrong.

(But--her hands are so tiny, and her lips... she knows those lips. She puts gloss on them every single day.

She has Puck’s eyes. She’s going to break hearts someday.)

“This was a mistake,” she says out loud, in the car, on the way back.

She’s been keeping track. It’s about her twentieth consecutive one, at this rate.

*

Santana gets into both of her top two choices; Quinn gets wait-listed at Columbia, but it doesn’t really matter. They’re not going _together_ together. It’s the same city, and Santana is so excited that Quinn doesn’t really know how to bring up that maybe--

It’s not even that she _wants_ to stay. It’s just that her mother may not be able to afford to help her out, and these aren’t the kinds of universities that will cut a girl a break for being able to do a round-off.

She has to sit and listen as Santana talks to Brittany about how great their lives are all going to be and how Boston isn’t _that_ far away from New York--and all she can think to do is look three tables over, to where Puck is hanging out with Mike Chang, playing some portable video game together.

She doesn’t even know for sure if he’s _going_ to college, but if anyone would understand her life now, it’s probably him.

*

Rachel comes and offers a literal olive branch.

Quinn can’t even think to ask her where she _got_ it, so she’s just stuck accepting it.

“You’ve had a really rough year. First loves are difficult, and this school is too small to avoid big drama. I would just like to think that we’re over it, now,” Rachel says.

Quinn would like to sock her, but can’t; not only would it be incredibly immature, but Rachel and Santana are … she’s not entirely sure. Friends?

“He would’ve stayed with me, you know. If I’d asked,” she finally says. “Both times.”

Rachel looks at her with an unreadable expression for a long moment and then says, “I think what matters more is that you didn’t.”

It’s maybe the only real forgiveness anyone’s offered her since Beth was born.

She decides to take it.

*

It’s Thanksgiving.

It’s just her and her mom. Santana is celebrating over at Rachel’s. Quinn knows she was invited, technically, but whatever peace was brokered between her and Rachel is much too fragile for family holidays.

It’s just her and her mother, who chooses this evening (of all) to ask what is going on with Santana.

“Nothing,” Quinn says, spearing a bit of turkey and examining it. (She can’t help it. She eats fine, now, but food still appalls her most of the time.) “She’s fine. She got into Columbia, actually, so that’s good news for next year.”

Her mom says nothing for a long moment, and then starts quoting Leviticus at the dinner table.

Quinn drops her fork and pushes away from the table.

“Quinn, you _know_ it’s a sin,” her mother says, pleadingly. “I just don’t want to see you associate yourself with another--”

Quinn stops walking; her legs almost lock, actually, and then she turns. “You want to know something really messed up, Mom?” she interjects, pausing in the doorway, because she just can’t help herself. “I’ve spent seventeen years trying to talk to God, because I know it’s what I’m supposed to do, and because for the longest time I believed that it would _help_ me. But he’s only talked back to me once, and the only thing he had to say was _fuck you, Quinn_.”

Her mother just gasps, and she’s so tired of all the things they can’t and won’t say to each other.

“Santana’s my best friend, you know. She’s been there for me all year, when you were just busy drinking too much and trying to pretend you weren’t dumped for someone years younger,” she says.

“That is _no way_ to talk to your mother--”

“ _Santana_ went with me when I went to go see my _daughter_ ,” Quinn finishes, bluntly, and then heads upstairs. There is no point in even waiting for a response, because she knows what it is.

 _We have to pray about this, Quinn. It will all get better if we pray._

*

She packs a bag and drives it over to Santana’s, and waits in her driveway.

“Hey--why are you here?” Santana asks, waking her up. She must’ve fallen asleep on the front steps; it’s late, and Santana’s looking at her with concern. “Shit, you’re not pregnant again, are you?”

“No, it’s nothing to do with Puck,” she says, groggily, but waking up quickly once she remembers what Thanksgiving 2012 turned into. “I think I just moved out again. My mother’s a hypocrite, _and_ a homophobe, and I can’t stand being around her.”

“Yeah, seriously, I hate her too, but--what the fuck happened?” Santana asks.

“It doesn’t matter,” Quinn says, sighing deeply. “Can I stay here for a little while?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Santana says, and picks up her bag and carries it inside.

*

The rest of the glee club finds out about Quinn’s fourth relocation in 12 months gradually and doesn’t seem all that surprised.

Brittany _probably_ thinks they’re dating. Quinn doesn’t bother correcting her, because if Santana cared, she would’ve done so by now. Everyone else just seems to take it in stride, like this is actually something that is _normal_ for Quinn now.

Well, everyone but Puck.

He comes to find her a few days later; she’s out by the bleachers going over next week’s drills and waiting for Santana, but he sits down next to her and says, “You know, everyone thinks you two are doing it. You’re probably on Karofsky’s hit list by now, even though I told that douchebag a million times that you don’t put out for anyone.”

“I don’t care,” Quinn says. The best part of the last twelve months by far is her disgusting-looking prom queen tiara; it’s hanging above Santana’s dressing table like a trophy.

“I know you don’t,” Puck says, and stretches his legs out next to her. “I think it’s pretty awesome, actually. That you told your mom to go fuck herself.”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “I see Santana took some liberties in telling you what happened.”

“No, I mean, figuratively or whatever. You know? She wasn’t there for you at all last year. Fuck that. Family’s supposed to be better than that,” Puck says.

Their hands are awfully close together on the bleachers, and so Quinn picks up the cheer book again and starts flipping through it. “Family isn’t really supposed to be anything. You make it what you want it to be.”

Puck is silent for a long time and then says, “What is she like?”

Quinn feels her heart break a little, just as she says, “She has my smile; and your eyes.”

Puck jumps off the bleachers without another word, and Quinn watches him go, his shoulders straightening with every step away from her.

*

Santana’s mother turns both of them into a project. Something to do with coming out--Quinn has no real idea, but she’s swept up into the whirlwind of girl time anyway.

“You girls make such a lovely couple,” her mother says at the end of a six hour stint at the mall.

“It’s not like that, Mama,” Santana says, looking a little embarrassed. “Quinn’s straight.”

“Well, so were you, until about a year ago,” her mother says, unperturbed.

Quinn tries not to laugh out loud at the look on Santana’s face.

*

Puck shows up at the Lopez residence unexpected; it’s weird seeing him around Santana’s mom, because clearly they know each other well, and it hits Quinn very suddenly that it’s probable that Mrs. Lopez once thought that this was her future son-in-law.

She tries to imagine her own mother slapping at Puck’s hand when he tries to snatch an empanada off a still-cooling plate, or Puck easily sitting next to her at the breakfast bar while they talk about how the Indians are doing.

She’s never _seen_ Puck this relaxed.

After about five minutes of shooting the breeze, though, he looks directly at her and says, “Hey, can we talk for a moment?”

Santana gives her that chastity-belt look that she _always_ gets before talking to Puck about anything, but really, he’s not going to try to do her amidst the geraniums in Santana’s back yard. If she’s honest, he hasn’t even _tried_ to move in that direction for an entire year now.

“Are you going again,” he asks, abruptly.

Quinn has every intention of saying “No”, because it was a _horrible_ idea, but when she catches the look on his face, all she can think to say is, “We need to give her a little notice.”

Puck nods and tilts back on his heels and then says, “How _much_ of sophomore year would you do differently if you had the chance?”

She just laughs brokenly, because, honestly. Where to start.

He half-heartedly grins at her and then sobers. “We could’ve made it work, you know.”

“No, we couldn’t have,” she says.

When he gives her a real smile in response, she thinks: _oh_.

*

This isn’t what she wishes God had planned for her, either.

She has had every opportunity to not turn into some teen mom cliche, but here she is, being driven over to Shelby Corcoran’s house in Puck’s car while he’s having a Big Gulp and eating some Cheetos from a bag.

Of course, then he surprises the hell out of her by opening the glove box and getting out a wipe. She knows she’s staring when he catches her eye and says, “Dude, I’m already the moron who thought it would be _okay_ not to use a condom. I can at least look clean.”

Quinn sighs and gets out of the car. There’s no real point in explaining that Shelby thinks that _the moron without a condom_ is the best thing that ever happened to her. She’s with Puck; it’s nearly impossible to think of it that way.

Shelby leaves them alone for an hour, after testing Puck thoroughly on his baby care.

(It’s excellent. Quinn thinks of Puck’s sister and feels incredibly guilty, for one brief moment.)

“I’m going to New York,” she says to him, when Beth’s fallen asleep in his arms and he’s just sort of looking at her with this dumbfounded expression on his face. “Next year. I’ve filled in the financial aid application.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks her, tightly.

“Because I want you to know that this isn’t going to become habitual,” she says.

He doesn’t need to respond with words; she can see how much he hates her, again, in his eyes.

*

Santana gives her a funny look when she gets home and then honest-to-God sniffs her.

“You smell like Puckerman’s truck,” she says, a little sharply. “There better be a good explanation.”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Yes -- the only thing Puck and I could possibly be doing together is having _sex_.”

“Ah,” Santana says, not apologetically or anything. Just “Ah”, because really, what else can she say.

“What are you reading?”

Santana holds up a print-out that has three gold stars on the front next to the title. “Housing guide. We have guaranteed for our first year, but it’ll be way cheaper to go to some scummy walk-up somewhere and split the bills. I’ve done the math.”

Quinn bites down on her lip, because they really should talk about this sooner rather than later.

But then Santana just scoots over and says, “Rachel swears by Hell’s Kitchen, but I’ve Wikied the place and we’d be surrounded by like, cheap copies of her. I’d rather slit my throat, honestly, so how do you feel about Brooklyn?”

“Great,” Quinn says, and tries to focus on everything else Santana wants to talk about.

All she can think of is the bitter disappointment on Puck’s face.

*

Some part of her isn’t even surprised when Puck is waiting for her outside of school; but the way in which he grabs her arm and drags her around the side of the building is a bit much. She yanks away from him when she can, and snaps, “What the hell.”

“What the hell _yourself._ Why the fuck are you doing this?” he bites back at her.

“I’m not doing _anything._ I was just honest with you.”

“What’s so fucking great about New York that it means you won’t take up this opportunity to like, I don’t know, see your fucking daughter grow up? Is it worth _that_ much?”

She’s silent, and when he stares at her, she’s a little afraid of him.

“Is this shit that everyone is saying _true,_ then?”

“Puck, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You and _Lopez_. I thought you bitches were just friends, but it figures--she and Britt-Britt were just friends, too, and those two sixty-nined like they were at an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

He’s disgusting. He’s repulsive and _so wrong_ that she tries to slap him, but of course he catches her wrist. He’s used to scrapping with girls that are much more--much more of _everything_ than she is.

“You’re such an idiot,” she snaps at him, pulling on her wrist, but he’s not letting go. “This isn’t about Santana. This is about me not wanting to turn into _my_ mother, and not wanting to see you turn into _your_ father.”

He drops her hand like it’s burning. “Well, _fuck you_ , then.”

“Been there, done that, _Noah_ ,” she says, as snidely as she can.

It really doesn’t surprise her that his only next move is to kiss her.

(What does surprise her is that she lets him for far longer than she should.)

*

Santana has a cross in her room, for cultural or historical reasons or something. It’s technically the wrong denomination, but after nearly a full year of radio silence, Quinn figures it’s better than nothing.

She kneels in front of it, closes her eyes, and says, “Please, just let me do the right thing this time.”

Then she crosses herself quickly, and heads downstairs to help Mrs. Lopez make a salad for dinner. She doesn’t stop to wait and see if she’s getting any sort of sign.

It’s become plenty clear by now that God doesn’t so much work in mysterious ways as that he just enjoys beating her when she’s already down.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For clarification, 'Five Stages' is part 1 of a series-type-thing that I've planned out that will focus on Santana almost all of the time; this little interlude just demanded being written after I was done with 'Five Stages' and spent a lot of time looking at Quinn through Santana, who obviously doesn't have a complete picture of her, no matter how good friends they are now. So, this stands alone, but is part of a bigger whole (if that makes sense.)
> 
> Many thanks as always to B, my personal spell-checking Cheerio, for getting rid of the worst of the worst. (Many thanks also to Google Streetview and Wikipedia for telling me the bare necessities about Ohio.)

Most of Lima is emptiness and drawn out silences. It has been for as long as Quinn has been able to remember, but it’s never felt like it’s going to suffocate her the way it does in the months leading up to Christmas.

Every afternoon, she closes her eyes as Santana flips through the mail, but that large envelope she’s expecting from New York is never there. Santana seems to think it’s all a formality at this point and spends most of her spare time trawling through Craigslist for potential sublets just so they can try out an area before committing to it. “It’s how they do it in New York,” she says, with a shrug, when Quinn asks what’s wrong with just contacting an agent.

She can’t really handle the speed at which things are moving--it’s not even _December_ yet and Santana’s already acting like they’re one foot out of town, which is just--

Twenty minutes of driving and she’s literally in the middle of nowhere; there’s more silence and more tumbleweeds, but even that feels better than being surrounded by people that she knows she’s going to be saying goodbye to.

*

Puck doesn’t talk to her about the kiss.

He doesn’t talk to her at all, actually; just hangs out with Finn and Mike and Sam, and plays football, and suddenly ( _randomly_ ) seems to be trying to stay out of trouble.

Santana laughs out loud when he shows up for Algebra for the first time _all_ year, and then laughs even harder when he somehow manages to collect a C+ on a pop quiz.

“Where is he going?” Quinn asks that night, when they’re preparing a quick microwave dinner together. She hopes she’s subtle about it, but Santana gives her the most uneasy look ever anyway.

“Why?” she drawls out slowly, when Quinn’s trying to look casual and like she really doesn’t care.

Quinn rolls her eyes. “It’s just a _question_. God. It’s not like I can’t ask someone else.”

Santana pops the microwave door open and says, “The Buckeyes will take him if he can scrape by a C- average.”

“So that’s why he was in class today,” Quinn says.

“Mm,” Santana agrees, punching a few holes in the foil of the other meal before propping it into the microwave. “I think he’s pretty fucking serious about making something of this opportunity.”

Quinn laughs harshly without meaning to; when Santana looks at her questioningly, she says, “Nothing. Just--it’s OSU, you know?”

She doesn’t need to add that to her, it would feel more like a death sentence. It’s one of the few things she and Santana have ever agreed on.

*

She’s never even looked at the OSU website. She drives by the Lima campus regularly, obviously, but it’s a part of all the background scenery of a town that really, she doesn’t have the best of relationships with anymore.

(The duplex houses in Santana’s neighborhood are not _actually_ all that great now that she’s not fourteen anymore, and Lima Heights is no longer as far away as it used to be.)

One day, after yet another empty mailbox, she just can’t help herself, though, and clicks through the academic departments one by one, just to see what--and she wants to say ‘what OSU can offer her’, but the bile rises in her throat so quickly that she blindly clicks on a different part of the website, just to get the hell away from it all.

Her random button mash lands her on the Buckeyes website. For one stupid moment, she wonders what numbers Puck and Finn will get.

(For much longer, she wonders if they’re planning on applying for housing together. It hits her suddenly: she doesn’t even know if they’re those kinds of _friends_ anymore, really.)

She slams her laptop shut when Santana’s done showering and walks in, toweling her hair.

“Are you looking at porn?” Santana asks, with a hilarious look on her face.

“What? _No,_ ” Quinn says, before giving her best ‘wtf’ face. “You’re demented.”

Next thing, they’re both laughing; and Quinn laughs until she cries. Then, somehow, she can’t _stop_ crying, even though she’s still laughing a little, too.

She knows she’s really freaking Santana out, but that in and of itself isn’t enough to get her to stop.

*

Mrs. Puckerman hates her in a way that Quinn is pretty sure she herself has never hated _anyone_.

When she rings the doorbell, Puck’s mom opens up and immediately stares at her stomach.

“I’m not pregnant anymore,” Quinn says, stupidly. Mrs. Puckerman’s glare gets slightly more intense at the words, and she sort of stumbles through her pre-planned excuse. “I’m--Noah missed History today, I’m dropping off some homework for him.”

“I’ll send him out,” Mrs. Puckerman finally says, before closing the door halfway.

Quinn dawdles on the front steps as the volume of voices inside of the house increases; finally Puck storms outside and slams the door shut behind him.

“What are you doing here,” he snaps at her. “Dude, seriously, do you ever _think_ before you do shit?”

“I don’t know, Puck--do _you_?” she counters.

He glares off into the distance and then says, “So why are you here. You’re sure as fuck not here to give me _homework_. Seriously, come up with a better lie next time.”

She doesn’t say there won’t be a next time. She has no idea.

“I probably won’t be able to afford to go to New York,” she says instead.

Puck’s entire jaw tightens and then he exhales slowly and shakes his head. “You are seriously like redefining the word ‘bitch’ lately, do you know that?” he says, still not looking at her. “I mean, really, are you just fucking with my mind for the _fun_ of doing it or--”

“Puck--I’m _trying_ here,” she says, her voice catching on the last word.

He finally looks at her, and it’s only then that she realizes that this is so much like the conversation they never had the _last time_ she really should have been talking to him. He knows it, too.

“It’s not my fucking problem what you do,” he finally says, but he doesn’t leave. He just stands next to her, clenching his fists, and she wishes he’d just give _into_ how pissed he is. Even if he just ends up yelling at her, at least they’ll finally be having a conversation.

So she pushes him. “I haven’t told Santana yet.”

He exhales sharply, through his nose, and then laughs and shakes his head. “Yeah, because lying to people about big shit happening in their lives worked so well for you before. You’re fucking priceless.”

“This isn’t like--”

“When is her fucking housing deadline, huh?”

She stops talking and sits down on his front steps, heavily. “It’s already passed. She knows I might not get the financial aid. This isn’t the _same_ as when--”

“No, it’s not. Because you actually give a shit about her, obviously,” Puck says, sharply. “And you _will_ tell her.”

She nods after a moment. He finally seems to relax a bit at that and sits down--next to her, but about as far away as he can. She sighs. He doesn’t say anything, just picks at some moss growing on the steps and stares off into the distance.

“What’s the Columbus campus like?” she finally asks.

Puck shrugs. “Don’t know.”

“You haven’t gone to--”

“I’m _going._ It doesn’t fucking matter what it’s like,” he says, and rips a clump of moss from the ground.

“Right,” she says.

When she leaves, just minutes later, he stands up slowly and walks back into his house.

She spends the drive back to Santana’s telling herself that they’re not in exactly the same position. It’s impossible. She doesn’t have _anything_ in common with Noah Puckerman.

(Other than Beth, and Beth isn’t _hers_ anymore, so.)

*

Christmas dinner is a really strange affair.

Mrs. Lopez invites the Berries over, in exchange for all the times they’ve had Santana over for dinner, and that’s how Quinn ends up holding hands with Rachel while Rachel’s clearly Jewish dad offers to say grace before they eat.

“Actually, Daddy, I think Quinn should do it. She’s by far the best Christian at the table; no offense, Santana. Or Mrs. Lopez. Actually, I suppose you might be a good Christian...”

“I’ll do it,” Quinn says, mostly to shut her up.

She doesn’t point out to anyone that she’s never actually said grace before; that this is a man’s job, at her house, and that she’s not entirely sure she remembers the words.

“To our last Christmas in this crappy town,” Santana says, at the end, before clanking her wine glass against Rachel’s. “No offense to all you old people who are stuck here.”

Quinn has to be nudged twice to remember the toast. She spends most of her dinner picking at her food and blocking out Rachel’s rambling; Rachel’s dad looks at her curiously more than once, but can’t possibly actually care enough about what’s wrong with her to ask.

(He must know who she is, at least by reputation. Rachel can’t possibly have endured the Cheerios’ special brand of hell for years without mentioning it at home.)

Sam shows up after dinner with some leftover pie shortly after dinner, and somewhat awkwardly says, “Well, um. Merry Christmas. I guess I forgive all of you for being horrible girlfriends--not you, Rach, you’re fine, obviously.”

Santana snorts laughter next to Quinn and then rolls her eyes. “You are such a _girl_.”

“If he were a girl, you would’ve never broken up with him,” Rachel says, smartly, and Quinn finds herself smiling.

When Santana elbows her with a protesting “hey!”, it just brings drives home the knowledge that in less than a year from now, she won’t have _any_ of this near her.

*

She throws up dinner for the first time in three years, and (out of habit) immediately starts to pray, right there on the bathroom floor, knees flush up against the toilet.

When her phone vibrates in the middle of her asking for forgiveness, it’s almost impossible to not interpret that as a clear sign from above.

*

“Didn’t think you’d come,” Puck says, when she’s slamming the door to his truck shut.

She straps in her seat belt and then says, “God more or less told me to.”

She doesn’t remember the last time she made him laugh. (She doesn’t acknowledge how much of a relief it is that she still _can_.)

*

They drive around for a good half an hour, aimlessly circling through town, until Puck finally decides to attempt parallel parking across the street from the OSU Lima campus. ‘Attempt’ being the key word; after backing up three times and skidding helplessly in re-freezing snow, he just sort of sighs and says, “Fuck it, it was the thought that counted.”

“What are we doing here?” Quinn finally asks, when it’s clear that for a change he’s not looking to just punish her for her past mistakes some more.

He shrugs and reverses the car. “It was a stupid fucking idea. You asked about the Columbus campus, I thought....” He shakes his head after a moment. “Whatever. I just wanted to get out of the house, my little sister’s turning into a Santana-levels bitch.” He taps his fingers against the steering wheel a few times, cruising back towards Santana’s neighborhood; she puts a hand on his arm almost recklessly.

“I don’t want to go back yet.”

“Okay,” Puck says, easily enough, and u-turns unexpectedly until they’re driving out of town all over again.

As it turns out, they like the same parts of the middle of nowhere.

(Quinn doesn’t pretend to be surprised.)

*

She doesn’t know how it is that she’s never this quiet around other people. Not even Santana; not even when they were studying like crazy last May. (It was _supposed_ to be a silent studying setup, but Santana hates basically everything that isn’t Sex Ed 101 and bitched constantly while forcing Quinn to answer revision scenarios out loud.)

They end up in the back of the truck almost by default, and some part of Quinn wonders how many girls he has deflowered in the exact spot she’s sitting. It must show on her face, or something, because he sort of rolls his eyes and says, “Don’t worry, you can’t catch anything from _metal_.”

It’s cold as hell outside, but they’re both wearing coats and after the first ten minutes of just sitting silently, Puck produces a bottle of Mike’s Hard Lemonade from the inside pocket.

“I’m not trying anything,” he says, sounding serious, and sort of gingerly holding it out for her. “It’s just fucking cold out; shit will warm you up, not get you drunk.”

She doesn’t even really know _how_ she knows this is a test of some kind, but she can see through it, and if she rejects the alcohol she might as well spit on him. It’s messed up, because she still doesn’t like really drinking (nothing to do with pregnancy, more to do with how every time she drinks with Santana she ends up admitting to things she doesn’t _want_ to admit to) but he’s her ride home, and she’s tired of making him feel bad for something that is probably at least fifty-one percent her doing.

(He didn’t invite himself up. He probably didn’t even know there was an up he could be invited _to_ , she reminds herself, when he tosses the cap and lets her have the first drink.)

“So you’re _seriously_ not fucking Santana,” he says, when they’ve both had a few sips.

Quinn’s not getting any warmer, but at least he’s still talking to her. (She doesn’t know why it matters at all, let alone so much.)

“No,” she says. She wants to roll her eyes at him some more, but somewhere along the way, it’s become clear to her that pointing out he’s a dumbass just makes _her_ feel bad. Even if it is true. “I’m not fucking anyone, _least_ of all Santana.”

He looks surprised that she used the word--she doesn’t swear much, mostly because she doesn’t need to--and then seems to relax a little. “Good. I don’t need every fucking girl in glee club that I have had sex with turning into a fucking lesbian.”

“Lauren’s not gay,” Quinn points out. She puts the bottle between her legs for a moment and pulls her hair up into a ponytail; then jerks unexpectedly when he reaches and stops her.

“Lauren’s a _bitch_ ,” he says, halting her hands. “Leave it down. It’s--”

They look at each other for a long moment, and then Quinn forces herself to focus on the absolute nothingness that surrounds them. “So you’re not seeing her anymore?”

“No,” Puck says, abruptly. “That shit wasn’t ever going to work.”

The _I told you so_ dies on her lips, because he’s not Santana and he wouldn’t understand that she doesn’t mean anything by it.

“Sorry,” she says, instead. It’s what Rachel Berry would’ve said in a situation like this, and for some strange reason, Rachel and Puck have always gotten along. Maybe this is why.

“I’m not,” Puck says, and lifts the bottle from where it is between her legs.

She tries not to inhale sharply at how his hand brushes by her thigh on both the way over and the way back, but he looks at her when he’s drinking again, and she knows she’s not hiding anything from him.

“What,” she asks, flatly, because whatever that look on his face it, it’s about the opposite of the look on his face when he realized she was going to let him _go there_ , two years ago.

He finishes the bottle and then tosses it into the field they’re parked in, carelessly and stupidly, just like everything else she’s ever seen him do, which is why it’s so surprising that he then says, “You need to figure out what the fuck you want from me” before hopping out of the back of the truck and walking back around, towards the driver’s side.

She doesn’t follow him for a long moment; not until he honks, scaring the shit out of her.

“I’m dropping you back off before your fucking girlfriend decides to have another talk with me,” he says, when she settles and closes the passenger door.

She turns on him, immediately annoyed beyond all compare. “For God’s sake--”

“Yeah, you might not be fucking her, but she definitely seems to think you’re the new Britt.”

“I’m obviously _not_ ,” she grits out.

Puck shrugs. “I don’t give a shit what is going on with you two, but if she’s going to go all crazy on me it better be because I’m actually doing something,” he says, bluntly, before looking at her. _Really_ looking at her. “And, no offense, but I’m a little fucking tired of people yelling at _me_ because you’re unnaturally fertile or some shit.”

Slapping him is about the least satisfying part of the evening, but he lets her, this time. Actually smiles when he touches his lip, which may or may not be bleeding; all she’s seeing is red.

“There. That’s more like the Quinn Fabray I’ve known for six years,” he says, smartly. “Way to live up to your reputation, babe.”

She fucking hates him, and he’ll _never_ know how close she came to letting him talk her into parenting a child whose future they would’ve destroyed together.

*

He whistles some Toby Keith song while driving them back. It takes every inch of her self-respect to not force him to say he’s sorry until they’re back on Santana’s street, and she’s fishing her purse off the floor of his car.

But, then, she catches him looking when he thinks she’s already stalking off, just a flash in the side mirror, really, and it stops her in her tracks.

“You know, maybe I _do_ need to figure out what I want from you; but what the hell do you want from me, Puck?”

“Nothing,” he mutters, shortly.

“She’s _gone_ \--and being a jerk to me isn’t going to bring her back,” Quinn says; she aims for cold, but ends up almost shouting it.

“You think I don’t fucking _know that_?” he snaps back at her.

“Well, if you _know_ , then what are you _doing_ here?” she asks. (Pleads, if she’s honest.)

He swallows hard and shakes his head. “If you have to ask, it’s not fucking worth explaining it to you.”

He peels away a moment later, and then Santana’s outside, scanning the street like a bulldog; Quinn almost flinches at the look on her face.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, before Santana can even get started.

“But--”

“I mean it,” Quinn repeats, flatly, and heads around her back into the house.

*

They don’t talk for two days.

Not her and Puck; not her and Santana.

Rachel is the only person who seems to figure that out, and looks like she might want to get in the middle of things--her favorite place, if the last two years are anything to go by, Quinn thinks bitterly--but doesn’t seem to know how to go about it.

When Santana flattens Puck after football practice on the first day of school, Quinn pulls both of them into an empty classroom and sits them down. They comply, like sulky children who really could’ve been siblings in a different life.

“You both need to just _stop_ it,” she says, knowing she sounds incredibly wound up, but trying to relax while leaning against the desk in the front anyway. “I don’t even really understand what the mutual problem here is, but it appears to be _me_ , which is really messed up given that I’m not dating or sleeping with _either of you_.”

Santana rolls her eyes, crosses her arms and stares out of the window. Puck just stares straight back at her, willing her to blink.

She doesn’t.

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt. _Again_ ,” Santana mumbles, after a long and really uncomfortable silence. “Your track record on sexual decision making is pretty much bullshit front to back, and I _know_ what he’s like, Q. He’ll make it all seem like it’s not a big deal, and--”

Puck makes a disbelieving noise. “Seriously? You think that just because I managed to talk _you_ into fucking me with three good lines that that shit works on everyone? Or that I’d even _try_ it, with her?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Puck, but didn’t you get her to spread ‘em the first time by telling her she’s _not fat_?” Santana snaps back at him. “The _last_ thing we need is another Babygate. Jesus, we’re almost out of this fucking town--far away from that baby, and you.”

The room falls deadly silent, but Quinn can clearly see a vein pop in Puck’s neck; two seconds later, he’s knocked the desk over and is heading to the door.

She moves quickly to cut his path off.

“Move,” he says, roughly. “Get the fuck out of my--”

“No,” Quinn says, and presses herself up against the door. She refuses to back down from him _again_. “We’re going to have an actual conversation, and you’re not going to storm out of here like an infant having a temper tantrum because my _best friend_ thinks I hate Beth for existing and you for knocking me up.”

His hands unclench slowly and then he takes a deep breath.

“ _Don’t_ you?” Santana asks, in the silence. She’s never sounded less sure of anything.

Quinn doesn’t look at either of them when she says, “No.”

*

It’s not much of a clearing of the air, but it’s the best they’re going to manage for now.

Quinn says things like, “I shouldn’t have” and “I wish”.

Puck says things like, “Well, whatever” and “I don’t give a fuck.”

Santana mostly just rolls her eyes a lot.

“So are you two done hitting each other now?” Quinn finally asks, pointedly, when there’s nothing else to say that wouldn’t be _way_ too personal with three people in the room.

“Don’t look at me, I don’t fucking hit chicks,” Puck says, scratching at a pen mark on the desk with his nail.

Santana shrugs and looks between them again. “I just don’t want anything to fuck up our plans. Okay?” She glances at the wall clock a moment later and curses softly, before saying, “I’m meeting Rach for lunch. Try to not get pregnant in my absence.”

Puck stares daggers into Santana’s back as she heads out of the room; Quinn just sort of smiles and rolls her eyes.

“You’ve known her for so long. How can she still get under your skin like that?”

Puck sighs and says, “Because she actually fucking _knows_ me. Duh.”

“Puck, I _swear_ there’s nothing going on between us,” Quinn says, again; she’s not even really sure why it’s so important that he gets that, but it seems to be the biggest problem they’re having right now. “She just takes friendship very seriously. You should know that, you’ve been her friend longer than I have, for God’s sake.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he says, his lips twisting in a way that Quinn is fairly sure means that he finally believes her. “She’s certified loco, and I guess she’s still pretty messed up over the whole Britt-Britt thing. Never thought I’d see a day those two weren’t, you know, tied at the ankles.”

“Yeah, I know,” Quinn says. It isn’t something she likes to think about either, even though if that friendship hadn’t ended, she knows she and Santana wouldn’t be anything right now. Let alone best friends.

“What’s it like living over there now? Like, I’ve been at her place often but never when her parents were actually around. Her mom’s fucking scary.”

Quinn shrugs. “ _Her_ mom doesn’t hate me. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’s trying to set us up.”

Puck laughs. “Great. The new me is an abstinent cheerleader. That’s fucking hilarious.”

Quinn grins, but she forces herself to sober quickly. She never has been able to handle just how much she likes Puck when he lets his front drop, even if it’s just a little bit, and she still hasn’t said what she actually wanted to. “Puck?”

“Yeah?” he says, and she knows there’s not a lot of time before his walls are all the way back up.

“I’m sorry I called you a Lima Loser.”

It’s not exactly what she wants to apologize for, but the way he’s looking at her, he sees right through her deflection anyway.

“Sorry I didn’t use a condom,” he says, in response.

It’s really not funny, especially not to them, but that’s probably why they’re laughing.

*

The next visit to Beth, when it’s stopped snowing so heavily and Puck’s truck can handle the trek, is a lot smoother. Puck picks her up and they listen to Johnny Cash on the drive over; Quinn wears her hair down (no reason) and they share a Big Gulp this time.

When Puck reaches over to blot her face clean with one of his wipes, she feels _something_ at the look of concentration on his face.

(It’s only twenty minutes later, in Shelby’s living room, that she realizes that their daughter gets the exact same look on her face when she’s reaching up to pop the bubbles that Puck is slowly blowing past her face.)

*

“I think she’ll be a real babe, you know, when she gets older,” Puck says, randomly, on the drive back. “It’s pretty sweet. Maybe I owe it to society to knock you up a few more times.”

Quinn really doesn’t know whether to be outraged or flattered. When the corner of his mouth twitches, just once, she punches him in the arm.

*

Mercedes stops by Santana’s a few days later and gives her a pointed look, eyebrow arched and everything.

“What’s going on with you and Puckerman?”

Quinn can think of many things to say that would all be true, like, _We’re working on forgiving each other_ and _We’re trying to get on for Beth’s sake_ and _It drives Santana insane that we spend time together, which is hilarious_ , but none of them feel like the actual truth.

“I don’t know,” she says honestly, and scoots over to make room for Mercedes, who looks very suspicious about sitting down in a room that _may_ belong to Santana. “Guest room, she’s not home,” Quinn says, trying not to laugh.

“Hey, I’m not afraid of her,” Mercedes protests, kicking off her shoes and sitting down next to Quinn. “You’ve got her wrapped around your finger, in case you’ve missed it.”

Quinn groans. “Oh, _please_ tell me this isn’t going to be another conversation about whether or not we’re dating.”

“No, duh,” Mercedes says, rolling her eyes. “She’s just intense about everything, including her friends. I guess it’s because of Brittany.”

“Yeah,” Quinn says, because it sounds about right. “Also, she does carry my books everywhere; I am the last person who’s going to point out to her that she’s being insane.” At Mercedes’ chuckle, she adds, unthinkingly, “Besides, it’s only for a few more months anyway.”

Mercedes looks at her seriously. “What, are you two splitting up in New York?”

Shit. “There’s nothing to split up, didn’t we just--”

“Are you not _going_ to New York?” Mercedes asks, sharply.

Quinn laughs shakily and says, “You really should put this mind-reading ability of yours to use, you know. You’re terrifying.”

Mercedes doesn’t look amused. “Are you seriously considering staying in Ohio so you can be with _Puck_? Quinn, come on.”

Quinn manages a good scoff. “I’m sorry--have you _met_ me?”

“Well, I know you said you weren’t in love with the dude,” Mercedes says, sounding apologetic, “but last I checked, you were planning on high-tailing it out of this state. Now it’s all, I may not be going. What’s different?”

Quinn takes a deep breath, but she’s so tired of dealing with this on her own. There is just no way to bring it up with Santana without crushing her, and no matter how much better things are with Puck, she still only sees him every few weeks--and this _isn’t_ his problem.

She reaches under the bed and produces the envelope that she opened two days ago, but still hasn’t read. “This is.”

Mercedes takes it and reads the front page quickly, her face falling with every line. Quinn takes a deep, measured breath, because, let’s face it, she’s known. Or at least, she’s strongly suspected, but making Mercedes actually read the bad news first is an unintended good way to receive it. It’s less personal, somehow; it feels like she might actually be able to handle it.

“Shit, Quinn, I’m really sorry. This isn’t even enough to cover room and board, let alone tuition, is it?” Mercedes finally says, softly, working the paper back into the envelope.

“No, it’s not,” Quinn says, automatically, even though she has no idea. She wonders if her voice sounds as reed-thin to Mercedes as it does to her. “So...”

She’s wrapped up into a quick but strong hug, and wipes at her eyes a few times just in case, but it doesn’t feel like she’s going to cry. It just feels like something inside of her has cracked, and the only other time in her life she’s felt like that is when that little stick showed two lines.

“So seriously--what’s going on with you and Puck?” Mercedes mutters next to her, Quinn laughs a little in relief.

It’s exactly the right thing to say, because Puck (even _now_ ) isn’t a part of her future, she doesn’t think.

Puck isn’t really a part of anything, other than Beth’s life.

*

Later that day, she takes it upon herself to finally tell Santana about the bad news.

She paces outside of Santana’s bedroom for a long moment before finally knocking.

And _of course_ Rachel is fucking there.

“Oh,” Quinn says, but Santana just rolls her eyes and beckons her into the room.

“Berry, meet Fabray; Fabray, meet Berry. You two have a shitload of things in common, starting with unfortunate taste in men and a renewed interest in chastity. Let’s hang.”

Rachel, always game for amends, holds out her hand all formally. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Quinn takes Rachel’s hand and almost squeezes it off when she looks at Santana, who looks happy and relaxed and like this is _already_ phase one of the rest of her life. Like she’s over everything that happened last year, and like things really couldn’t be much better.

“My financial aid got declined. I can’t afford NYU,” Quinn says, blankly, and then twitches when Rachel’s hand goes limp in hers--only for a second, though. Then she squeezes hard again, and it’s basically the only thing keeping Quinn standing.

(In the list of things to ask for forgiveness for in confession, somewhere near the very top is _being awful to Rachel when Rachel has always been nice to me_ , for whatever reason. It’s no wonder she always skips the top ten and asks for forgiveness for stupid, little things instead.)

Santana’s eyes are filling with tears so rapidly that she can’t blink them away, and then she just says, brokenly, “What the fuck are we going to do?”

Deep breath, and Quinn forces herself to look at Rachel, who _doesn’t_ look like her world is falling apart.

“There is no we,” Quinn says. Not gently; not even nicely. She’s known Santana for most of her life, and she’s dead certain it’ll be easier if she just brings the truth home hard. “I’m not going to New York, and you’re not staying in Ohio.”

Rachel’s hand drops away at that, and instead her entire arm wraps around Santana’s back. Santana is still just sitting there, staring at her. A part of Quinn wishes that Santana would just hit her, or do _something_ that is expected; it’s so much more devastating to just see the realization set into her eyes, one moment at a time.

She reaches for the letter where Santana is gripping it; tugs it away, and says, “I’m really sorry.”

She _is_. It’s not a lie. But she can’t be in a room with a Santana who thinks this is the end of _her_ future.

Santana’s not the one who is going to be living two hours away from everything she wants to forget for the next four years.

*

Afterwards, she heads downstairs without even stopping at her room and then heads out the front door, walking aimlessly down the street without really looking at anything.

Her phone rings when she’s done two blocks, but she ignores it. It’s probably Santana, now ready to yell or ready to apologize or whatever it is she’s going to do, and she’s not ready to deal with that.

Ten minutes later, she’s sitting on a park bench tying her shoelace.

It probably should surprise her that Puck’s truck stops right by her, but it really doesn’t.

He swings out the driver’s seat and is next to her in about two seconds flat, and then just stares at her for a moment, until she’s done tying the lace.

“Rachel called me, she thought you were going to go off yourself or something,” he says, in _that_ voice.

Quinn almost says something intensely stupid like _of course not, that would be a sin_ but instead just looks up at him--he’s so tall, he’s almost blocking out the sky--and says, “That’s a little dramatic. Though I guess unsurprising, given the source.”

Puck’s almost sympathetic half-smile is what finally worms out the tears, and when they start falling they don’t seem to be able to stop.

He picks her up into a hug, and it’s the first time in six months that she’s actually felt like she can breathe.

*

They go back to his house; his mom hates her with a burning passion, but Puck rightfully points out that really, she hates _him_ for almost becoming a parent at 16 and for almost becoming a parent with his _best friend’s girlfriend_.

It turns out that Mrs. Puckerman isn’t even home--she’s out shopping with Puck’s sister, a note on the coffee table informs them--and so Puck leans into the refrigerator and gets out two beers, tossing her one.

She’d say she doesn’t feel like drinking, but it’s a complete lie right now, and she finishes that beer at what she knows is wine-cooler pace. Puck wordlessly hands his own over and she finishes that, too, with a hiccup at the end.

“I’m going to graduate with a B average,” Puck says to her, stretching out and tipping his feet on the coffee table. Mrs. Puckerman doesn’t seem like the type to allow that, so Quinn nudges at his knee until he puts his feet down on the floor. “How fucked is that? I mean, I didn’t even go to math for the past two years and I can _still_ graduate with a B.”

“You’re not stupid,” Quinn points out, setting the second empty bottle down on the floor. “I never thought you were.”

“No--just that I had no future potential,” Puck says, with a small, self-deprecating smile. “Don’t worry, you’re not the first. Lopez dumped me because of my FICO score.”

“Lopez is _also_ a lesbian. I doubt it was just your credit score.”

Puck smiles a little and then glances at her. “Are you seriously okay with her being gay now?”

“I don’t think it’s a _now_. She’s just finally stopped pretending that she has any interest in boys.”

“Yeah, but,” Puck says, scratching at his head, and Quinn likes that she has no idea if he actually cares about this or is trying to distract her. “She always liked doing it; you know, with me, or with me and Britt. Always got off. It’s--”

“Puck,” Quinn says, with a sigh. “You didn’t _turn_ her gay, and you’re not actually a homophobe, so stop saying dumb things that make you sound like one.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever.”

She doesn’t know when he started playing with her feet, but it reminds her of being pregnant--maybe a little too much, and so she pulls her knees up to her chest and looks at him from between them. It feels safe to look at him, that way.

“Shave off your mohawk,” she says, after a long moment of just looking at him.

“Or what?” he asks.

“There is no _or what_. You’re going to college soon. You have the chance to not look like such a jackass when you first start meeting people there.”

He grins at her. “Do you really want to play this game?”

“What game?”

“The ‘things we should change before college’ game.”

Quinn has no idea where he’s going with it, so she just shrugs. “Why not.”

“Okay, Quinn Fabray,” he says, stretching slowly; and his shirt possibly rides up, but she’s definitely not looking at his abs. She’s _not_. “You should probably let someone do you again. You’re going to college soon. You have a chance to not be so frigid.”

She kicks at him. “I’m not _frigid_ , you jerk.”

“Seriously, though. We weren’t _unlucky_ or anything like that. You weren’t on the pill, I didn’t use a fucking condom. You shouldn’t let that stop you from ever boning another guy again,” Puck says, and he sounds a little _guilty_ about it. Like he _actually_ thinks that this is why she’s not having sex.

She laughs. She doesn’t expect to, but she laughs. “Puck, I didn’t stop having sex because of _you_ or the baby. I was saving myself for marriage, you know.”

“Yeah, everyone says that,” he handwaves, “but come on, nobody actually believes in that shit. Plus, there’s nothing to save now, except maybe anal, which would just be weird to offer up on your honeymoon. … although I guess it would be kind of awesome.”

She doesn’t drink a lot of beer; that’s the only plausible explanation for why she’s laughing again. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins at her. “You’re _not_ disagreeing.”

“I _still_ don’t believe in sex before marriage,” she says. “I just don’t really get the big deal, and it’s not like I have the most positive associations with it. No offense.”

He doesn’t seem to take any; just stretches his arm out, brushing past her calf once to get her to look at him, and then says, “Can I like, tell you something? This has been bugging the shit out of me for two years now, and... I don’t know.”

She doesn’t say anything, and he sits up a little bit more and actually looks _uncomfortable._

“What is it?” she asks.

“I just want to--” He looks incredibly frustrated, and then glances at her. “I’m normally a _lot_ better than that. So like, it’s not like you’d know, but I normally last a lot longer than that and I _never_ get off before getting chicks off, so--”

“So even before I got pregnant, I got short-changed?”

“I’m just saying, I’m normally a _lot_ better than that,” he repeats, and gives her a look that makes her mouth feel oddly numb. “You can ask Santana.”

“I have,” Quinn says, before she can stop herself.

He actually fucking blushes, but then raises his eyebrows. “And?”

“Well, she’s gay now--”

He throws a pillow at her.

*

It’s only on the drive back that she asks the question that has been on her mind all afternoon.

(He’s done an amazing job of distracting her, forcing her to play _Madden_ for an hour during which she barely figured out the controls before showing her his sister’s collection of Justin Bieber paraphernalia, with very knowledgeable but scathing commentary.)

“Puck--why _wasn’t_ it good, with us?”

He nearly off-roads in surprise but then just stays silent until they’re idling in front of a traffic light.

“Because I’ve wanted to fuck you since we were fourteen,” he finally says. “And I just never thought I actually would.”

“Oh,” Quinn says. Her stomach sort of flips at those words, and then flips again when he glances at her.

“I didn’t--I mean, I didn’t _just_ want to fuck you. I just _wanted_ you. Back then.”

“Back then?” she asks, carefully.

He doesn’t say anything else until they’re in front of Santana’s house, but then unsnaps his seat belt and leans over the console quicker than she’s ever seen him move; and when he kisses her, it’s hard and meaningful in a way that makes her think about real estate and white fences.

“This is a fucking terrible idea, right?” he asks, when he pulls back, his thumb blotting at her lip. “I mean, I don’t even know if I _could_ do you again. I’m just going to be scared shitless that the condom is going to break and you’re _obviously_ not on birth control, and …” He laughs and leans back. “What the fuck am I even saying? You don’t believe in sex before marriage.”

It’s appalling that she finds this _cute_. She really should be outraged that after kissing her once, he thinks he’s going to get inside of her panties again immediately--but she’s not.

“Puck,” she says, before cupping a hand around his cheek.

“No,” he says, and shifts away from her completely. “Seriously, I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking--I don’t need Finn to hate my fucking guts again over you, and we’re doing good with Beth now and everything, so--”

She unbuckles and follows him, until she’s basically _on his lap_ , which is incredibly uncomfortable, but he can’t look anywhere that’s not at her. “Puck.”

“What?” he asks, low. Her heart pounds, just once, and then she runs a hand through her hair.

“This isn’t about Finn, or about Beth.”

He looks at her carefully. “So what is it, then?”

“It’s--” she says, pausing for a long time to look for the right words; when she can’t find any, she gives up and kisses him again.

*

Santana’s in the living room by herself when she heads inside, still looking absolutely devastated. It dispels any lingering notions Quinn has of being okay with the bad news from NYU, and she sinks down on the sofa next to Santana without saying anything.

“I’m really going to miss you,” Santana finally says, her voice thick and rough, before dropping her head on Quinn’s shoulder.

“You’ll have Rachel,” Quinn says, softly, and then takes a deep breath before adding, “And... I’ll have Puck.”

Santana shifts against her and sighs deeply. “I thought you weren’t going to let pretty boys with leather jackets talk you into anything anymore.”

“He’s shaving his mohawk off, and he’s going to pass with a B average. I don’t even think he _owns_ a leather jacket anymore,” Quinn says, after a moment. “I think he’s growing up. Like, _fast_.”

Fast _enough_ , is what she really means, but doesn’t say.

“He’s still going to be an asshole a lot of the time, and he’s not ever going to do exactly what you want him to,” Santana points out, before twisting onto her back, head in Quinn’s lap. “He’s not a Finn or a Sam. He’s not going to change for you, or bend over backwards to make you happy and shit.”

Quinn smiles faintly and then shrugs. “So? All the bending and changing didn’t make me happy, did it.”

“No, I guess not,” Santana says, before closing her eyes.

*

Nothing much changes, even though Quinn feels that she and Puck had a massive break-through that day in the car.

Sometimes they hang out during and after school, but it’s usually in crowds; and a lot of the time she almost forgets that there is _something_ going on between them, because it all takes place through a few stolen kisses at parties and repeated conversations with Santana about birth control and, occasionally, when Santana’s particularly wasted, good use of certain muscles.

(Quinn has never liked Rachel more than the time when she intervened in the middle of _that_ discussion to go and force/help Santana to throw up.)

It’s for the best that it doesn’t turn into a big _thing_ all at once. Quinn’s had enough of the school’s attention on her to last a lifetime, and this entire year -- with rushed plans to move to Columbus as well as trying to get in as much time as she can with her first ever _real friends_ before they all disperse around the country, she doesn’t even know if she has _time_ to deal with Puck.

She’s trying something not-so-serious and casual, for the first time in her life, Mercedes points out to her in the late spring, when they’re out for milkshakes together at the Dairy Queen.

“It looks good on you,” she says, when Quinn knows that she has a stupid, surprised look on her face. “Seriously; it’s good, seeing you like this. Relaxed and all that.”

It’s surprisingly easy to forget that God doesn’t really approve of _just doing whatever_ when this is the first time in her life that she’s felt even a little bit like she might be _happy_.

*

Of course, when they graduate and are clearing out their lockers, Puck shows up next to her unexpectedly and takes her little half-empty box out of her hands and carries it to her car.

“I want to do this right,” he says, sliding the box onto the back seat. When he straightens again, he looks possibly the most serious he ever has, and Quinn feels her gut twist with something that feels a whole lot like fear. “I mean, I don’t want anything to fuck up our visits to Beth, because it’s fucking amazing that we get to see her, and I want to keep it that way. So we need to stay cool.”

“Is this why you’ve been keeping your distance since February?” she asks, carefully.

He shrugs. “Finn and I are okay again. It’s never gonna be like it was, but we’re cool. I just want to break it to him like--at the right time. When we _know_ it’s going to work.”

“When what is?” she asks.

He leans against the side of her car and makes a face. “Don’t make me say it. I’m not a chick, I don’t talk about shit like this.”

She smiles unwillingly, but this isn’t as simple a conversation as he seems to want it to be. “I really need a better idea of what we’re doing here. I mean--are we both single? Am I free to do whatever I want to Columbus? Or--”

He looks appalled. “ _What_? No! We’ve been … like, fucking _dating_ for like four months now.”

“Uh, _no_ we haven’t,” Quinn says, slowly. “We’ve barely even spoken to each other for most of the year, Puck.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t fucked anyone else since you found out you weren’t going to New York. I mean, seriously,” he says. He looks like he means it, too. That _him not screwing around_ is the ultimate sign that they’re dating.

She can’t stop from laughing at him. “This hasn’t been _dating_.”

He runs his hand through that place where his mohawk used to be and then just sort of scowls at her. “Well, why not?”

“Because--we don’t do anything together, just the two of us, and we haven’t talked about what we’re doing at all, and we only ever make out when we’re both drunk, and you--”

Puck rolls his eyes. “So we’ve been dating, minus all the gay shit.”

She considers for a moment whether or not she wants to have a serious discussion, or just tease him. It’s not a hard decision, not even close, and she can’t quite hide her smile. “You _really_ should’ve told me sooner; my _boyfriends_ all get to go to second base.”

He stares at her disbelievingly and then starts backing her into the side of the car. “You are such a bitch. Seriously? I could’ve had my hands on these--”

“ _Hey_ ,” she laughs, batting his hands away.

“Hey yourself,” he responds, with one last feeble grope, and then they’re both laughing.

Quinn looks around him and sees Santana and Brittany walking out of the school together, followed by Rachel and Mercedes, gesticulating ridiculously at something. It sends a pang straight to her heart; there’s still an entire summer to get through before people start leaving in a serious way, but this feels like the real beginning of the end.

“So like--do you want to go to BreadstiX sometime next week, or something?” Puck half-heartedly offers, next to her. “I figure that’s the ticket, right--do I get to _see_ them or just touch them?”

“You’re an ass,” she tells him.

When he just grins at her, it’s impossible not to kiss him.

*

He’s there when Santana leaves.

Quinn has been trying _not_ to cry because Santana sure as hell isn’t going to manage it, but it’s like fighting against the inevitable at this point, and it’s only Puck’s hand, low on her back, that keeps her from sobbing hysterically.

Some part of her feels like the better part of her future is leaving, but leaning back into him, it feels more or less like things are turning out the way they should be. Like she has a lot of time to figure out what the future is going to _be_ , and doesn’t need to know right now.

(She _knows_ that as soon as Santana is gone, he’ll be taking her over to see Beth, who is now gurgling words that sound kind of like ‘duck’ and the look on Puck’s face when she does it... well.)

Santana hugs the hell out of Puck first, and then lands in Quinn’s arms for a long, tight moment when the last of her bags is in the back of the rented truck that she and Rachel are taking up; Rachel’s stuff (which, if Santana is to be believed, includes an elliptical and a piano) is being picked up next, and they’re on a schedule, so this is actually goodbye, now.

“You’ll be fine,” Quinn promises Santana, who pulls back to look at her and then kisses her--just once, like it seals the deal somehow.

“So will you,” Santana says, and squeezes both of her arms hard before turning around towards the truck.

Quinn watches her go, even as Puck runs a suspicious hand over his face a few times, and wonders how long it will take before they actually believe it about each other. (She’s not so worried about herself anymore, but Santana in an all-women’s college with _Rachel Berry_ as her only local support?...)

“Don’t worry about her. Seriously. God has a plan, right?” Puck says, almost like he’s reading her mind, in a tired-sounding voice, when the truck disappears around the corner. “I’m pretty sure he does, anyway. That’s basically the only shit I remember from Hebrew school.”

He wraps an arm around her waist, and she doesn’t bother correcting him on whatever he thinks he’s quoting. _God has a plan_ sounds like it’s just about enough certainty for right now.


End file.
